His orders were simple. Kill the Merry Men. But things were never as simple as one would like.
Once again, the Sheriff of Nottingham intensely stared at the collection of Wanted posters collected upon his writing desk. Each face stared back at him, almost mockingly. Each seemed to rub in the reminder of his failure.
"A whole year," he muttered. "One whole, bloody year!" he repeated, this time yelling as he forcefully shoved the parchment aside, sending them fluttering into the air.
His right hand man, Merrick, stumbled backward in surprise. "Bu- but my Lord," he stammered, "you have come so close! Ma- Many times!" He quickly leapt to the floor to clutch at the parchment, clumsily trying to sort them. Shaking, he arranged them once again on the desk. This was not the first anger outbreak of the evening and it was sure to not be the last. This was the sort of thing that was expected from the Sheriff when he was at a loss. For he was right. It had been a whole year since Robin Hood had become an outlaw. And in that time, the Sheriff had not yet come close to capturing him. Instead, Robin Hood was effortlessly running rings around him. Easily stealing from the rich, giving to the poor and all the while humiliating the Sheriff whilst he went about this.
Finally, Merrick seemed to have gained the slightest inkling of courage to finally voice his thoughts. "If I may, my Lord," he said, as loudly as he dared.
The look he received near made him run for his life. But still he continued. "I just think that you could look at things in a different way." Leaning over the desk, he scatted about the posters, making them all shown. "What do you see?"
"Vermin," the Sheriff said coldly.
Merrick's head tilted slightly as his shoulders slumped. But he refused to be defeated. "Well, yes. But you also see outlaws. Your enemy. The things that are constantly getting in your way."
"And here I was, worried that you had a point to all of this," the Sheriff said sarcastically. "I know all this!"
"But you could see so much more!" Merrick said, darting around the table and pointing to the main poster. The one of Robin Hood. "Stop seeing them as outlaws or the enemy. See them as men." With a smile, he added, "And men have weaknesses."
The Sheriff's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered those words. It was no defined reaction but Merrick saw the lack of fury as a sign that he was on the right track. This gave him slight confidence as he bumbled away. "So find out more about them. Find out who they are. Or why they are outlaws. And more importantly, their weaknesses. Their families. Their friends. And use these."
Amidst this flurried brainstorm, the Sheriff had risen and seemed to wander around the desk. In the middle of Merrick's words, he had a hand firmly pressed on the back of his servants heads as he shoved it forward to collide with the wood of the table. The crack seemed to echo about the stone walls.
Merrick was trembling with both fear and agony as he clutched to the desk. Lifting his head, he felt a blotted stream of blood plummet from his nose. His teeth had torn through his lips and this blood gushed alongside.
There was little time to dwell on this as the Sheriff quickly plunged a dagger into his back.
With a sharp yank, the Sheriff pulled his dagger back and wiped it upon the unfortunate man's tunic. "Think that you're smarter than me now?" the Sheriff asked calmly as he cleaned. "Come to me with your bloody rubbish theories."
Then he paused. "Actually, you raise a good point Merrick."
He purveyed the bloodied body. "Oh-" he said, without a hint of regret. "Sorry," he added with no real conviction. Huffing, he added, "Oh well." And he sat once again behind the desk. Finally he pushed the body back from its resting place upon the desk. "Always in the way Merrick," he muttered.
Then, once again, he looked upon the faces of the Merry Men.
Drops of Merrick's blood had spattered across the desk. Using his fingers, the Sheriff carefully smeared the blood across the picture of Robin's face. He rather enjoyed the sight. And one day he knew it would be real.
So he did as Merrick suggested. Rather than looking at the myth, he looked at the man.
So much work had gone into those wanted posters. The Sheriff had a distinct vision of what how he wanted each outlaw to look. So facial expression were exaggerated. Extra scars added. Anything to make them look dark and intimidating. It was a useless lie. People knew exactly what sort of man Robin Hood was, no matter how hard the Sheriff fabricated the truth. But even despite the detailed lies on the poster, there was still something that the artist had captured about Robin's eyes. "See him as a man," the Sheriff muttered to himself. He was young. Younger than most would expect or believe. The Sheriff was unsure of the exact year but knew that the majority of him men were superior in age. And yet, somehow, he controlled them all. He was handsome too; there was no denying it. Dark brown hair can be seen beneath that signature green hat. And those eyes. From a basic glance, one would easily notice simply the beauty of the particular shade of green. But one looking closer would see the things that hid behind them. Bravery, cunning, a slight hint of mischief. But most of all, hope. After staring for so long at the face, the Sheriff resolved that it must be mocking him. He resolved that the facial expression purveyed perfectly the very look that Hood always gave him. The look that said, 'you can't hurt me.' With a crash, the Sheriff had stabbed his dagger onto the table, right into an eye.
"This is absurd Merrick," he said, still speak to the corpse. "I know full well what Hood's weakness is and I can't use it! You failed!"
It was rather fortunate timing that at that very moment, a wind swept through the room. The candles flickering startled the Sheriff slightly. Parchment was shuffled about the desk before the Sheriff could secure them.
Grumbling, the Sheriff began to reorganize. But in the process, he looked upon the faces of the other Merry Men. And he paused. "Hood's weakness," he murmured, staring at the other outlaws.
The idea took a great deal of time for the Sheriff to understand, as it was so foreign to him. The idea of caring for ones men. After all, the Sheriff had a far different relationship with those under his control. As proven by the blood trailing that trickled down the stone floor.
"Guards!" he bellowed, to which they came crashing. Two similar bumbling fools that the Sheriff knew nothing about. He realised that he did not even know their basic features behind their helmets. But he cared not. Everyone knew that he and Robin Hood were entirely different men. And finally, he saw fit to play unto this.
These guards were already extremely on edge, made only worse at the sight of the body. But they tried their best to not physically shake where they stood.
"You!" the Sheriff barked at the taller of the two. "Where are you from?"
His words surprised the men. "I, uh, what do you mean Milord?"
The Sheriff rolled his eyes angrily. 'I mean which village had the thorough misfortune of having you call it home?"
"Locksley Milord," the guard said quickly.
It was the answer the Sheriff had been searching for. Gesturing to the desk, he added, "Do you know any of these men?" The man simply nodded. "Not just from their posters you fool! Do you know any of them from having lived in your village?" The man's lip quivered as he nodded. "Well? Which ones then?"
The man stepped forth slowly, taking care to step around the body. For a moment he studied the faces before him and slowly, separated them.
The Sheriff smiled darkly. "So? What do you know? Family? Friends?"
He seemed resistant to answer. "Do I have to remind you of the consequences of not helping me?" the Sheriff said, voice rising slightly as he tried to keep himself controlled. That familiar old saying rang in his head. That of catching more flies with vinegar than with honey. It was worth a try.
With on shaken finger, the man pointed to a poster. "William Scathelocke," he said, shaken voice matching himself perfectly. "I grew up with him." Seemingly, he regained his conscience as he asked, "what do you intend to do with any friends or family?"
"Throw them a nice dinner," the Sheriff said sarcastically.
"Well that won't do you much good with the Scathelocks," the man said. "You've already killed them."
The Sheriff groaned. "Surely not?"
"Joseph Scathelocke?" the man prompted, forcing back the memory. "Their family lived in Locksley. But they struggled when Prince John took the throne and taxes rose. You were newly in your post as Sheriff and wanted an example set. And Joseph stole bread to feed him family."
A dark smile of satisfaction crossed the Sheriff's face as finally the memory returned. And finally the face bore some recognition too. "That scar," he said, pointing to it. It was one scar on the posters that was real. It was a deep gash on his left cheek. "I gave that to him. The night he tried to kill me. So that he would always remember the failure he was. So he is in Hood's gang now aye?"
The other guard finally found his voice, seeking to gain favour. "Milord? I've 'eard talk that 'e seeks to gain training from Hood to gain revenge on you. For killing his Father. 'Cause without 'im, the rest of the family starved. And when he couldn't kill you, he knew that he needed to train."
"He's doing all this for me?" the Sheriff asked, feigning bashfulness. "How very delightful." Turning back to the other guard, he confirmed, "but you say that the rest of his family died, yes?"
The first guard nodded. A little too eagerly. The Sheriff was untrusting but carried on. "Who else?"
The next poster the guard pointed to was that of Thomas Barnard. "He was the town drunk," he said simply. "No family."
The Sheriff scoffed. "Hood certainly knows how to pick them." But he recognised the face too. The long and shaggy dark hair was all too familiar. That man could be lethal when he wanted to be. Touching his own forearm, he saw a scar that he himself had gained on behalf of that man. "No point for appearance though," the Sheriff added snarkily.
The next recognised outlaw was Benjamin Kent. A little scamp of a lad. Little more than a child. Floppy brown hair fell forth in front of his bright blue eyes. He was so small. So innocent. The Sheriff wanted nothing more than to make an example of him. But fate was not smiling upon. "No family," the guard added. "He was an orphan."
"Just cut to the chase!" the Sheriff roared. "Is there anyone here that has known family?"
The second guard stepped forward and pushed two posters toward the Sheriff. For a moment, the Sheriff wondered if there had been an error and he looked upon the same man twice. Then, with fury, he recalled how many times he had been tricked with the use of the twins. "They're from Derby," the Guard said. "I lived there for a while. They 'ave a Father."
"A Father," the Sheriff said darkly.
"And I know of 'im," the Guard said, pushing another poster back. "Don't bother. Roger Darnell. From Doncastor" The Sheriff easily remembered the bright red hair and angered demeanor of the older man.
The Sheriff gave off an interesting face as he looked upon Roger Darnell but said nothing.
The Guards exchanged a look. The second one looked suddenly dark, with a slight sense of triumph as he pushed forward the final two posters. "Both are from Locksley. I'm sorry Milord that my comrade here neglected to tell you outright about their families."
"Much Berner?" the Sheriff said slowly. "The name is familiar."
"The Berner family runs the mill. They do direct business with the castle."
"Oh," the Sheriff added, slightly put out. He did know the family. They were a necessity. One of the largest suppliers of grain to Nottingham. Then he shrugged, "everyone can be replaced. I'll keep them in mind."
"And this one?" he said, trying to hide the shudder as he gestured to the giant. "Little John," he said with a sneer.
The Guard smirked. "Wife."
And with that, the Sheriff's smile grew. "Well about bloody time."
His hand snatched forth, yanking the final poster from the guard's grasp. "I have this one covered," he said.
"But I-" the guard stammered. "Wasn't he of Noble blood? Distant cousin to the Prince himself?"
"Go," the Sheriff barked at them, looking instead to the poster. "Allen A. Dale," he muttered.
His plans were interrupted by the door crashing open. Muffled sounds of protest went unnoticed as a man shoved past the guards at the door. One could tell this man was originally very well dressed. But the day had not been kind. His fine silk was torn and covered in mud and dirt. The fur on his cloak was hanging on by a thread. His hair stood on end as he continued to rack his shaking hands through it. "This is unacceptable Sheriff!" he yelled. He moved with such anger that his plumed hat went flying to the ground.
The Sheriff rolled his eyes before turning to face him. "Lord Frederick," he said, plastering on a smile. "Was something wrong with your journey?"
Lord Frederick looked to him with disbelief. "What do you think?"
Sherwood Forest. Many call it mighty and majestic. We simply call it home. No matter what could possibly occur in my life, Sherwood will forever be considered my one true home. There is no place in all of England in which I can feel so at peace, despite the constant fight, pain and misery that tended to occur. For once these moments passed, there was much happiness. And laughter. For I was around my true friends.
A new year brought about new promise. The sun rose of a peaceful forest. Only a small sprinkling of frost remained, despite the cold. This suited me fine. I had never faired well to the cold. But even I could not deny the beauty that it brought with it. Few of my precious green leaves about the trees survived the season but the few that could, positively sparkled. The crunch of underfoot brought about that wonderful feeling. The feeling of a good deed being done. For even in the cold of winter, we continued on in our quest to steal from the rich and give to the poor.
I still hate winter. The main reason of which the beginning of the year 1190 remains in my head was the uncharacteristically short winter. One strolling about Sherwood would never suspect the true time judging simply by sight.
On this particular morning, Sherwood was disturbed from the peaceful lull of the early morning by the sudden interruption of a carriage racing past. The sound of the wheels spinning was only deafened by the voice of the driver, yelling for the horses to go even faster. Two guards had been placed on the back ledge of the carriage and they were clearly holding on for dear life. Not a thought was spared for them. Nor for the driver or the horses. For the carriage's inhabitant was a man named Sir Frederick and he was the typical example of rich, greedy and cruel Norman. Only one thing passed through his mind: the infamous Robin Hood.
It seemed that our legend preceded us. Little more than a name had created upmost terror in a man who had never laid eyes on an outlaw. This was soon to change.
Only one thing could overcome such fear in such a man. And that was love. And not the love we would all like to believe. The only love that kind of man was capable of is love of wealth. This should surprise no one. His only reason for the journey for Nottingham was to do with taxes as he had business with the Sheriff. The nature of this visit was never of interest. The only aspect of interest was the result. And the result, was a considerable amount of gold. This gold could help many a starving family. That was where we came in.
"Faster you fool," he yelled again and the driver obliged. It was obvious that nerves surpassed him if shaking hands were anything to judge by. They were drenched in sweat too but he refused to rub them on his new coat, another example of the frivolous greed of the rich.
All thoughts rushed from his mind when he noticed the carriage slowing. "Did you not hear me?" he roared but it was apparent that it was continuing to lose speed until eventually them came to a complete stop.
Fredrick assumed the worst as he fumbled for the door. He drew himself to his full height as he stumbled out, hoping to intimidate any immediate threat. Initially, there was nothing. Only the restored peace of Sherwood. Looking back he saw his two guards. The ones he had instructed to be ready at any cost. They were tied to each other and gagged with a look of fear in their eyes. His driver too was bound and scared, still sitting in the driving seat. Fredrick quickly spun around, doing anything to find his attacker. The forest was eerily silent and seemingly abandoned.
I thought it would be rude to keep him waiting for a second longer, although I was rather enjoying watching his panic from above. With ease I swung down and gracefully leapt to the forest floor. The man's eyes widened in fear. "Who are you?" he whispered.
I majestically paused. "I am…Allen A Dale." I like to think that I am slightly intimidating but the look on his face told me otherwise. He slumped in relief and almost smirked at me. I knew that I had never been graced with those rippling muscles that made women sigh and men groan in jealousy. I had however been graced with golden hair that may have originally helped my appearance but now did nothing for appearing intimidating in appropriate situations. So I guess his initial confidence was slightly justified.
He laughed as he told me "you sir, chose the wrong man to mess with. I am a master of sword and am sure that I would best Robin Hood himself."
Were the words expected to fill me with fear? They still make me laugh to this day. Acknowledging him seemed frivolous so I just stared beyond him and waited. He feared to follow my gaze as I said calmly, "Well here is your chance."
For this time when Frederick turned, he unmistakable looked upon the face of Robin Hood.
This was not the same boy I had grown up with. His transformation astounded even me as he grew. One day, he was my childhood best friend. The next, he became the hero. The kind that made terrifying guards into trembling fools and beautiful women swoon. But once again, more on that later.
Frederick meanwhile, became quite the amusing spectacle, fumbling for his sword with the little ounce of movement that his fear allowed him. Robin had to hold back laughter as he watched. I was simply bored. Finally, the poor bloke had his sword in his trembling hand. "Really?" Robin asked. In one word he seemed to say, 'do you really think you can fight me?' He sighed and said, "if you insist," and one swift motion, drew his own sword. The ringing sound form the hilt seemed to echo for miles. I had never seen the eyes of a man become so wide in panic. I considered myself quite the hero as I spared him the fight, stooping to pick a rock form the forest floor and hitting as hard as I could on the back of the head.
"Quite a brave man really," Robin noted, putting his sword back in its sheave.
"The best today," I agreed at I jumped into the carriage to retrieve our spoils.
Robin of course would never dream of helping. Somehow, in the years of his transformation, he had gained an intolerable ego. This ego became almost unbearable at many a time. Times like now, when he considered himself so high above me that it would be impossible for his to help. Well, it could be that. There was also the chance that he was far too deep in thought to notice. This happened a lot. Whatever the reason, he remained outside of the carriage, leaning slightly on the high point of his bow, as he thought aloud, "You know, sometimes I wish for a decent fight. Nothing to the death of course, but at least something for a little excitement."
I shook my head at my friend. One day, that ego of his would get him killed. He was never one who was happy in peace. He longed for the fight. And as we have learnt, this attitude often had disastrous consequences. Letting out an impressed whistle, I called out, "pretty good loot though." It took many a heave to even get the chest to the door of the carriage. My struggle clearly amused Robin. "Well you could help," I grumbled.
It took both of us, moving at practically snail pace, to slowly lug the chest back to camp. All the while, I secretly agreed with Robin as I wished things could become a tad more exciting. We had been outlaws for a whole year at that point and the novelty was beginning to wear off. Much had been accomplished. A gang of trusted men had been formed. Taxes had been stolen back form the Sheriff and rightfully returned back to the people. The ransoms on our heads could change the poorest of families into being richer than the Sheriff himself. But this mattered not, for no one would dream of turning us in. The people positively loved us.
But the initial excitement over what we were doing was fading. I had obviously forgotten the term 'be careful what you wish for.' In the years to come, I would many a time wish for the simple times of how we believed that a few stolen taxes could save England. Little did I know that things were about to change.
We were the last ones back to camp, an oddity in itself. Whenever tasks paired or grouped me with Robin, I knew that the results would reflect. What we lacked in time, we made up for in spoils of course. Little John initially thought to brag, thinking himself the unnamed champion of the day. All thought of that was gone when he saw what we carried. I was happy to wipe the smirk from his face, asking "how much did you get then Little John?"
He threw a small pouch at Robin's feet, glaring at me all the while. "Well isn't that adorable?" I said happily.
"Let me carry that for," he said in the gruff voice, easily lifting the trunk that Robin and I had struggled over for a great portion of the morning. This act would not have sounded so impressive if one knew Little John like we did. For he was little more than a giant. He was almost seven foot tall, and wide to boot. Not in fat, as I like to say but in muscle. This, accompanied with scraggily dark hair and beard made for quite an intimidating man. The true secret of Little John was how misleading his appearance was. In all honesty, he was probably the most docile of us all. Save for the times when he was angered. During these time, he easily lived up to his reputation, and became far worse. But we felt safe, knowing that these times only came when someone he cared for was in danger. And as much as he hated to admit it, he cared for us. Therefore, we saw the kind and gentle Little John a lot more than the angered giant.
I may have silenced John's bragging momentarily but there were plenty more Merry Men to take his place in this action. Much was the next to think himself great. "Luke and I were the first ones back!" he said proudly. Such an act was another oddity around camp. Much was not normally the best at things to say the least. It was not from lack of trying. The little runt was just all too easy to make fun of. The trouble was, it was all too easy to make fun of the little man.
Luke liked to say "there is not much to our Much," and this is rather true. Never before had I seen such a small man. And he enjoyed complaining. A lot. It took much restraint to hold ones self back when he was in one of those moods. But somehow, we made it through. It helped to focus on the idea that eh was in fact a good man, beneath that annoying exterior.
"It was only because I could not bear to be around him a moment longer," Luke retaliated to Much, causing much laughter around camp. This was perfectly in character for him, always the dark joker.
"Laugh all you want" Much yelled at everyone "you're all just jealous that I beat you for once. Whose pathetic now aye?"
"Still you" Luke said. Always the joker.
An outsider would have panicked as what appeared to be another Luke stepped towards us. "Everyone stop your cruelty and come eat," he called. These words always had a positive effect around camp.
"At least one brother is nice," Much muttered. He spoke the truth. Despite twins, Matthew and Luke were extremely different, uniting only in their love of helping others. Luke would never admit to this though, claiming to be in the Merry Men for the adventure of it all. Having twins in the ranks served us well in those early days. It took many a month before the Sheriff noticed that they were not the same man. Both had dark brown hair and dark beards, all worn in the same style. They enjoyed looking the same. We did not. Especially in early days of attempting to tell them apart.
And so followed the usual meal routine that ended in a near battle every day. The goal, obtain the largest portion of food.
"I'm bigger than all of you so I need to eat more" Little John said as he swooped in the grab the plate. Whether he ate more or not, he seemed to grow regardless.
"Growing bones need more food" Benny said as he swiped it. Whether he ate more or not, the opposite happened. Benny was our youngest member, barley over seventeen years of age and the only Merry Men he was superior too in height was Much. We all anxiously awaited he day he would be required to shave.
"Growing bones are easily broken" John said menacingly and the lad quickly gave him back the plate. I may have stated that John was mellow, but food was one of his weak points and we all knew better than to cross it. We still tried.
All off the commotion did well in re-waking Thomas, who grunted out, "I need it. I'm sick." No one paid any heed to him. There was nothing natural about his so-called 'sickness.' Night after night he could be found at his beloved tavern, drinking way more than his fill. The trouble was, when he was in a normal state, he was a skilled fighter. And his heart was in the right place. If he took the time to cut that greasy brown hair and trim the horrid beard, he would appear halfway decent and be taken seriously. Something about him told the world that he had no wish to be taken so. So his comment was ignored. And he was far too feeling nauseous to actually fight anyone for something that he didn't really wish for.
Luke tried his best to simply snatch without any form of excuse. Matthew was faster. Saving the plate he called over, "come and eat Will! You have no need to train this early."
Such words had no effect on Will. Mornings were for training. Helping the poor was considering training. Everything was training. All in an effort to kill the Sheriff. The man who had killed his Father. "No time," he said simply. And once again his sword was flying, attacking with a mad passion. His poor partner had a different view. Roger only participated in such antics as he thoroughly disliked spending more time around us than he had to. The reason for why he joined the Merry Men was never extremely clear. I suppose that he had the same spark in all of us that demanded we care about others. He was now faced with the two things he hated most, facing injury against an overly determined Will, or spending time with us. For once, we won. But it was a hollow victory. He saw in silence, clearly bored and uncomfortable. The little hair he possessed was smothered down with sweat and the day had barley begun. You see, he was always thoroughly ashamed at his bright red hair and trimmed it as short as possible. This only succeeded in making it stand out all the more.
As you can see, the Merry Men were a rather impressive bunch.
Robin and I had far better things to do. Though Robin's ego often made him just as proud as every other man present, he was a leader when it counted. And plans were to be made. And when there were plans needed, I was needed. I did mention that I had the thinking powers that no other possessed. So times called for us to think of the night ahead. We needed nothing fancy at that time. There was plenty of loot from the day that had to be passed around where it was truly needed. Looking over my records, I could see the villages and the time frames of our last visits. It was obvious that Locksley needed us the most. Between the pair of us, we had different routes planned as we divvied out the areas.
From what we could see, lunch had been a rather peaceful ordeal. Little John had scared them in line and everyone seemed to have finished with minimal injury. Thomas was the only one who had ended up too close for John's liking and now nursed a quickly forming bruise.
I never saw the point in these minor battles. We had enough troubles without turning on each other. But it was all in good fun. These men were the closest thing to family that I had ever had.
Knowing that I would not have time later, I took that moment to write in my journal. But I got no further than the date. For writing it brought a realisation. The 19th of the month of February in the year of our Lord 1191. We had been outlaws for exactly one year.
"You noticed too huh?" Robin said, surprised me with his pretense.
"How could we forget?" I wondered.
"We've been busy I suppose," he said smiling. But I could tell that he was not as happy as he made out.
I wondered long and hard about asking. Honestly, I wanted to ask him every day but never felt it appropriate. "Do you ever regret it? Becoming outlaws I mean. I mean, we had our old lives. And you, well-" I trailed out, not wishing to upset him further.
He thought about his answer. "Not really," he said surprising both of us. "I don't think about the past. Makes it easier."
"Well I personally regretted it many a time this winter," I said laughing and shivering at the same time. "What I wouldn't give for my old bed. And servants. And a fireplace."
But honestly, I didn't. I didn't miss my old life at all. Sure there was security. And wealth. But I still didn't miss it.
There were plenty of times when I grew close though. Being on the receiving end of Thomas after a full night of drinking for instance. Or John's monstrous snoring as it took at least three men to wake him. People's glamourized views of us would surely change if they could see Benny's true age or how short Much really was, at least a head shorter than an average sized man. And people would clearly change the idea of us being eternally caring after one conversation that rubbed Will, Roger or Luke the wrong way. Even our skill had been exaggerated and could be seen by giving the likes of Matthew or myself a sword against the likes of someone like Robin.
But they were the Merry Men. And those were the greatest days of my life.
